


Fear is the heart of love (so I never went back)

by GufettoGrigio



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ayrton lies, I should probably have Death as a character in this story, Imola 1994 happens but different, M/M, Not Really Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:28:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29268750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GufettoGrigio/pseuds/GufettoGrigio
Summary: He had arrived early in the afternoon, an arm around his neck and all of his belongings in a brown suitcase. Juan Manuel had shown him to his room, hesitant to speak. What does one say to a ghost?
Relationships: François Cevert/Jackie Stewart, Gerhard Berger/Ayrton Senna, Juan Manuel Fangio/Stirling Moss, these are all mentioned only
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Fear is the heart of love (so I never went back)

**Author's Note:**

> I can't explain. This will not make sense, probably. It's part of a very complicated idea regarding reasonable risk, God, suicide and relationships. Yes, I should be finishing my Nico fic - I swear I will. Anyway. Apologies. Also, don't ask the logistics. The idea is that Sid Watkins is in on it too. It's him and Jackie, Juan and Nelson because he doesn't care.  
> The italics are from the Bible.

He had arrived early in the afternoon, an arm around his neck and all of his belongings in a brown suitcase. Juan Manuel had shown him to his room, hesitant to speak. What does one say to a ghost? 

He is still holed up upstairs now, with the shadows of the night stretching and dinner time long gone. Juan Manuel sighs. He is very tempted to call Stirling, convince him to come out here for a while, but he figures Jackie would have said if that was an option. The least people know about this, the more likely they are to get away with it. Truth is, Juan knows he does not have long to live. He knows that's what makes him safe. Whatever transpires here, in the days to come, he will take into the ground with him come Christmas. He is fine with that. 

**

The day after Juan Manuel wakes up early for breakfast. He doesn’t need much sleep these days, or at least not much sleep all in one go. Gritting his teeth against the aches and pains, he forces himself out of bed - he has a  _ guest _ and everyday things take so much more effort than they used to. In the kitchen he boils the kettle once, then again and sits down on the rocking chair with the hot water bottle waiting for the bread to toast. 

“¿Vas a comer siquiera?” - he mutters, looking up to the ceiling.  _ Probablemente no. _

He eats his breakfast in silence, grateful that nobody is there to see him almost spill his coffee when his hands shake too much. He braves the stairs afterwards, with a second cup of coffee and a medialuna precariously balanced on top of it. He leaves them outside the door of the guest bedroom without knocking. He should, probably, but doesn’t know how. 

It’s no easy way, putting yourself back together. It’s no easy way finding comfort and direction when the very foundations of your world have been hollowed out. 

**

Juan Manuel doesn't consider himself much of a religious man. Not in the sense he doesn't believe - he does - but more that he is not sure where religion fits in it. Going to Mass on Sunday is a chore, one he does out of fear, mostly. It's irrational - thinking that his ticket to Hell is stamped by a missed ceremony he falls asleep at anyway. It's still instinct. God is nowhere near the roar of a car. That he knows. Getting in a car like that is risk: a selfish play with a gift that's not yours. What if you lose your life like that? Isn't it the same as laying on a train track, hoping the train won't come today, or tomorrow but knowing it will come someday, sometime. Isn’t that why they are here, after all? Because God is cruel and death is near?  _ Anyone who loves their life will lose it. Anyone who hates it in this world will keep it for eternal life.  _

**

His guest is silent for dinner. Juan's housekeeper cooked - a marked improvement on yesterday's jam sandwiches and half-burnt scrambled eggs. Old age sucks, if eating jam for dinner is your idea of subversive. They eat sitting at the table, the rich stew in Juan's old wooden bowls. 

"Are you going to talk at some point?" - Juan asks. He doesn't mind his own silence for company but it does bother him when his company is silent.

"Desculpa." - his guest mutters, his eyes on the stew. 

“Once” - Juan tells him - “I threw a bucket of cold water over Stirling.”

His guest looks up, eyebrows raising, the spoon stopping half way to his mouth. Juan shrugs. “It was after his accident. He was...alive. Not living. He had stayed in bed for a week. Not eating, not showering, not speaking. So, I fixed it.”

There’s a hint of a smile, just barely, as a mouthful of stew is brought up to pale lips. “Is it a threat?”

Juan smiles. “Maybe. Finish your dinner”

**

The funeral is the following day. They watch it on tv. Juan can admit he is surprised - he did not expect his guest to come down at all, to be honest. He can’t imagine what it’s like, watching your own funeral. 

“Jackie is a good actor” - his guest observes, watching the Scot. It must be easier than watching the others. The ones who love and believe. 

“Jackie is always mourning.” - Juan admits and watches as his guest shakes, his good hand folded in his lap. 

“Will it ever go away?”

Would it help to lie? “No. It won’t.”

On the screen, Prost looks ready to pass out. 

Berger is crying.

He had put a bowl, just in case, but Juan is not fast enough. His guest collapses on the floor, heaving, what remains of his breakfast splattered everywhere on the tiles. Juan lets himself slide down his armchair,reaching out to hold him, uncaring of the vomit and the tears and of the fact he won’t be able to get upright by himself again. There’s no grace in death. No poetry. Pain is ugly. It’s messy. And that’s fine. 

  
  


**

"I need to talk about Gerhard."

Juan looks up from his newspaper.

"And you prefer doing so with me than with Jackie?"

His guest nods. He is standing on the door in a plain white t-shirt and a pair of slacks. He looks more put together than he did yesterday at the funeral, but then again, Juan thinks, that is understandable.

"I don't have good news for you, I am afraid." - he says. He points to the kettle. - “Still, do bring me something warm and we can talk about it.”

They sit outside, under the trees in the garden. Juan has had him bring a blanket too from the bedroom because he is always cold these days, the chill following him and his kidneys betraying him.

“So, Berger.” - he says, once his guest has perched himself on the railing.

His guest breathes. “Loving Gerhard is wrong.”

Juan sips his coffee. “So is smoking, having sex outside marriage, risking your life in stupid ways, risking someone else’s life in stupid ways, using contraception and eating shrimp. Try again.”

His guest bites his lip then sets his cup down. “He scares me.  _ It _ scares me. How much I love him. And I know it shouldn’t. Love, good love, should not be about fear.  _Perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love. We love because He first loved us_ and love should bring us closer to him.”

“Bullshit. We are imperfect beings and our love is imperfect. We want to support those we love but we also want them safe. We trust them with our lives yet we don’t trust them with theirs...and if we do we accept that they may destroy them both. Theirs and ours.”

“Jackie…”

"If I were Jackie, I would have jumped off a bridge."

There’s a beat of silence. His guest gapes at him, eyes wide. For a moment, Juan is concerned he is going to throw up again. When he doesn’t, Juan continues.

“Jackie let his heart race. He taught Francois everything he knew and accepted that loving Francois meant accepting the possibility of his death. And death came. Then, because God is cruel, death came again and took Graham too like it had taken Jim and it had taken Jochen. When Jackie stopped it was too late to save anyone, himself included.”

“But…”

“But not letting Francois race meant not loving him and Jackie is brave, braver than me. Because he loved Francois he took fear and fear came for him.”

He looks away, feeling the bubble of an old shame rise back into his chest. No one else knows this but them - him and Stirling - them, their secret. Painful and ugly and bittersweet. Love is selfish.

"I told Stirling, after his accident, if he ever wanted to see or speak to me again he needed to stop racing."

His guest is still gaping, his mouth open. He stumbles, thoughts jumbled. “What?”

“You heard me.” - Juan says - “I love Stirling. I loved him and I love him and I will go to Hell for it. Because I am selfish and I did not want him to die. So, I had him choose. That he could not have done much good driving was...secondary, in a way.”

“If I had asked Gerhard to choose” - his guest admits - “he would have chosen me. If I had told him “I can’t drive, Death is upon me, but if I don’t get in the car now, I won’t ever find it in myself to get in the car again...he would have come with me. I know it.”

Juan nods. “But he would have hated you for it. Because he loves racing.”

His guest smiles, a sad, dreamy thing. “He loves racing. That’s him, that’s me. That’s why I love him. I don’t know what I am without racing. So, what could I offer him?”

Juan understands. “You let him make his choice, by himself, and he chose to race.”

His guest laughs. “I knew he would. I hoped he wouldn’t. But driving, really driving in Imola would have been…”

“A suicide” - Juan finishes for him.

There’s nothing else to be said. _Do not destroy the temple of God._

**

The conspicuous absentee from the funeral rocks up about a week later, in a dusty old road car, squinting in the midday sun. Still stubborn, still blind as a bat, Juan thinks. They are all crazy. 

“Welcome to the afterlife” - he grumbles, looking Juan’s guest up and down - “Você parece morto.”

“Você parece uma maravilha, Piquet.” - his guest answers, with a smile that would totally justify Piquet decking him one. Piquet just ignores him. 

Lunch is a quick affair. They cook, set the table, Nelson somehow showers in the middle, while Juan is on the phone with Jackie. Surprisingly they don’t murder each other.

Nelson is leaving the car, taking a cab back to the airport and from there out to France. He has also brought the new documents, two credit cards and enough cash to stop any sane man from worrying for a while.

He shakes Juan’s hand then stops for his guest, hesitates. They hug, in the end, graceless and strong. Forceful, unkind but alive.

“ Você me deve um agradecimento, me fazendo mentir para Alain.” - Nelson says, looking annoyed. Then shakes his head. - “Não seja um estranho.”

“Eu juro pela minha vida” 

Piquet snorts and flips him off. 

**

“Do you believe in fate?” - his guest asks as he loads his suitcase in the trunk.

“No. I believe it’s a convenient excuse to run away from our own choices ”

The trunk gets shut. His guest straightens up.

“And forgiveness?”

There’s no easy answer for that - Juan Manuel thinks, watching the car disappear down the road. Stirling forgave him. Jackie can’t forgive himself. Gerhard? 

Slowly, he climbs the steps to go back inside. In truth, it should barely have been an effort, getting up and functioning every day these past two weeks, yet it was. His body is tired, his soul heavy and this last secret may have just tipped the scale. He’ll wait, he doesn’t have much else to do. It’s near anyway. Death is easy. 

“Buena suerte, Ayrton” - he whispers, a though, a prayer, a hope - “Vivir es la parte difícil.”

**Author's Note:**

> GufettoGrigio on tumblr. I will happily talk about this madness.


End file.
